Do Robots Have Christmas?
by ShinyShiny9
Summary: It depends on who you ask, actually. Better forget the cute carols and cozy fireside scenes - Team Dark is taking on Christmas, and there will be thievery, and armed combat, and mail fraud. Oh, and the spirit of Christmas, as explained by a deranged robot.
1. Chapter 1

**Hiya, everyone! Merry Christmas!**

**This one's dedicated to Metal1784, who kept nagging me to actually go through with writing this thing (so now you have to finish that one-shot, Mets!), and smileaway96, who inspired me to keep going with the adorable "This One's Different." Thanks to both of you! ^_^**

**Oh, and the title for this 'un came from a kids' book, _Do Rabbits Have Christmas?_. Somebody just mentioned that book while I was trying to think of a title, and bam. **

* * *

><p>There was an enormous red-and-green wooden box set up in Station Square. The sign on it read "LETTERS TO SANTA," and every day little children would drop letters of this sort in through the top slot, while little Mobians (too short to reach the top slot) would drop similar letters through the lower one.<p>

However, one would not have expected Omega to be contributing a letter of his own. His teammates certainly hadn't.

"What in the world would he be asking Santa for?" wondered Rouge, watching as Omega trotted away. Shadow shook his head bemusedly.

"Well then, come on!" said Rouge. "It's going to kill us not knowing."

Shadow eyed her uneasily as she pulled him across the street to the mailbox, but Rouge wasn't hearing any objections. It turned out that the mailbox had a large lid on top, quite high up and locked shut.

"Give us a boost?" asked Rouge.

"What, your wings aren't working?"

"Never hurts to ask," Rouge sighed, and flapped up to the level of the lock.

"You know that's probably illegal," growled Shadow, as Rouge expertly dealt with the tumblers.

"Pshaw. Omega uses the same address as us, so it's technically our mail too!"

Shadow opened his mouth to tell her otherwise, but Rouge had already popped open the mailbox's lid and was digging around inside. Fishing out a crisp purple envelope like the one they'd seen Omega dropping in, she slit open the top and began to read the spidery scrawl of the letter inside.

"Deer Santa . . . " She cocked an eyebrow. "This isn't Omega's handwriting. Way too good to be his. And I _think_ he'd know how to spell 'dear'." She read some more and giggled. "Awwww, it's from some little girl asking Santa for a 'Brabie'. Cute!"

"Leave that alone Rouge, that's somebody else's letter." Not liking where this situation was going, Shadow clambered up next to her and fished out another purple envelope, this one with Omega's handwriting on the outside. It really was worse than the other letter's.

"There." He waved the envelope at her annoyedly and opened it himself. Glancing over the contents, he groaned.

"Annnnd he's written the entire thing in binary code. _That_ was a lot of nonsense for nothing."

"Not for nothing . . . " murmured Rouge distantly. Shadow looked up and saw she was still reading the first letter.

"Rouge! Put that down!"

"No, no," said Rouge, grinning from ear to ear with a worrisome glint in her eyes. "This kid is asking for 'joolrey for Mommy'. Jewelry, Shadow! And I bet a ton of kids are asking for electronics and other fancy stuff! Even assuming that only half of them actually get what they're asking for—"

"Stop right there," ordered Shadow, holding up one hand. "You are _sick_, Rouge. And that's coming from _me._"

"Ohhh, hush. Hush, you." Rouge waved at him disparagingly, produced a little burglar's sack, and began to shovel letters out of the mailbox and into the sack.

"It's illegal to read other people's mail!" growled Shadow.

"Sure, but this isn't _mail_," Rouge smirked. "Look at these, most of them don't even have postage! The postal service doesn't touch them."

"How do you know the postal service doesn't carry them? They have to get to Santa somehow."

"Puh-leeze," snorted Rouge. "Everyone knows Santa has his own methods of finding out what kids want. The letters are just a formality. Make sure the kids are willing to put forward the effort and ask politely and practice their writing skills, ya know?"

"You made that up."

"Says who?" Rouge stuck out her tongue and kept stuffing mail into the sack. Shadow watched her with dismay. His own moral standards weren't the highest, but swiping little kids' Christmas letters was just _too_ low.

"Look, even if they're not real mail, you can't just go stealing letters to Santa. What are you, some kind of winged Grinch?"

"Awww. You wound me," Rouge retorted, feigning an expression of piteous dismay for all of four seconds. By now she had to lean way down into the mailbox to reach them. "Lighten up, Shads. Believe me, Santa never sees these letters; he'd go nuts reading this kind of handwriting. They go straight from the mailbox to the trash. What does it matter if I read 'em in between?"

Shadow growled sullenly, but made no further useless protests. Rouge continued stuffing letters into her seemingly bottomless burglar sack, at last tumbling headfirst into the mailbox to reach the last of them. Shadow was seized by a sudden desire to slam the lid closed—at least for a little while—but managed to restrain himself.

After all, it _was_ Christmas. Locking your friend in a mailbox just didn't cut it.

* * *

><p>Omega, being impervious to cold, found snow less of a nuisance than some. Mobians as a rule were short and shivery, so any snowfall deeper than ten centimeters started to be a major source of annoyance for them. They couldn't just blowtorch their way through snowdrifts like Omega could.<p>

As he slogged along, the landscape shifted gradually from a smooth white glaze to a jagged, lumpy hodgepodge, glints of dark metal peeking from beneath the layer of snow that softened their harsher edges. This was one of Eggman's junkyards, where his destroyed robots lay in wait for smelting and repurposing, and where Egg Pawns sometimes came in search of parts to repair themselves. Even beneath a layer of glimmering snow, the place had something vaguely creepy about it.

Omega began rummaging casually amongst the piles of mangled scrap, heaving aside massive plates of metal that had once been armor on some ill-fated machine. Sometimes he found some useful tidbits around here; his own parts did wear out or become damaged every now and then, so he liked to carry a few spares of the really vital pieces. Besides-

He thought he heard something. A little sort of swooshing sound. Just as he looked up, a bolt of sharp-yellow energy struck the ground by his feet, sending up a gush of snow and dirt.

Aha! And there was his attacker, popping up from behind a nearby tangle of scrap metal, snow-brightened sunlight flashing off a shining blue hull.

"Your reflexes are lamentable," jibed Metal Sonic. "I could have sliced you in half a full seven-point-nine milliseconds ago, had I not desired a more stimulating encounter."

"You wish to battle?" Omega's right arm was already converting into a machine gun, the parts scraping eagerly in their familiar track. "Excellent."

Metal Sonic flipped back behind the tower of scrap metal as a salvo of bullets pierced the air around him. For an instant Omega thought he would have to go after him, but almost at once his opponent burst out of cover in a streak of blue, engines whining as he rammed himself full-force against Omega's hull. The hit sent the larger robot staggering, nearly tripping over stray bits of scrap. He still had the presence of mind, however, to grab Metal Sonic while he was in range, get a solid grip on his arm, and hurl him against a tower of warped metal. With a deafening crash and rumble, the tower collapsed on top of Metal; for a moment there was silence.

Then Metal reappeared in an explosion of gears, sparks and snow, and the fight was on. Omega was sheer brute force, heavy, solid, seething bullets and fire; Metal Sonic was a dancing knife, light, swift, darting in and out with sharp slices of retribution. They clashed and dodged repeatedly, at last settling to circle each other warily for a moment, probing for openings.

"You disappoint me," sang Metal Sonic jeeringly. "You've gone _soft. _Have you been spending too much time watching those pathetic meatbags and their pathetic tricks?"

He sprang, his claws scraping trails of sparks off Omega's hull. Just as he was pulling back for a really decisive blow, however, he was thrown entirely off-kilter by an explosion of white filling his visual field. It didn't carry enough force to even knock him back, and it cleared immediately, but he was startled enough that he forgot to fire. He looked up at Omega in something like bewilderment.

"One of those pathetic meatbag tricks," remarked Omega smugly, and followed up with a blow that sent Metal tumbling. Pressing his advantage, he strode forward and pinned the smaller robot down with one gleaming metallic hand—but even as his grip was setting, he already realized what would happen. Of course, his opponent would turn to quicksilver and ooze out from between his fingers, probably rematerializing in prime position to deal the finishing blow. He'd as good as sealed his own fate; he would have sworn if he were the type for it.

But nothing of the kind happened. A full three seconds went by, and that was an eternity for a robot. Metal Sonic struck out furiously, but failed to break the grip. Omega looked down at him, puzzled.

"If this is an attempt to be less predictable than usual, let me point out that it is failing you."

Metal Sonic's eyes flared a wrathful red, a warning bolt of energy dancing between his metallic fingers. Relenting, Omega pulled back and released him. The smaller robot clambered to his feet, eyes on the ground sulkily, but tipped one hand to show he conceded defeat.

Friendly match or no, he was still just as sore of a loser as usual.

Omega had run into Metal a few times since the whole "Metal Overlord" incident, and they generally left each other well enough alone. Although still rather bitter and combative, Metal seemed to have backed off from the world domination angle for the time being—he kept mostly to himself, lurking around the more sparsely populated regions of Mobius. Omega would normally have a vested interest in converting this creation of Eggman's to tektite-and-silicon scrap, but Metal had _rebelled_, and was pretty gung-ho about knocking holes in Eggman's empire himself. Omega grudgingly acknowledged him as a sort of estranged younger brother, and left it at that.

"You have sustained a combat injury?" he asked, as Metal began to rummage around in the scrap metal. A warped, jagged-looking break marred the smooth blue of his shell, stretching from under his arm and wiggling down his side like a scar.

"It is slight," said Metal dismissively. "And it was returned with exponential increase."

Or in lay terms, "Yeah, but you shoulda seen the other guy."

Omega studied the smaller robot, vaguely amused. Still, he found himself mentally calculating the angle at which Metal would have to bend his arms to enact a self-repair, and he was reasonably certain arms did not bend that way. To say nothing of the question of _seeing_ the damage to work on it.

"Do you propose to self-repair?" he inquired. Metal Sonic nodded tersely.

"The damage only disables my liquid metal capability, but that is significant enough. I assume it is a wire breakage; I only need to patch through with another wire."

"But you cannot see the site of the damage. You are liable to break something else if you try."

"I am aware of that," growled Metal, and continued rummaging. Omega stood silently, his processors humming a little over baseline as he weighed his options. He and Metal didn't really have much more than an acquaintance going, and had been mortal enemies not too long ago—but still, they _were_ technically related. And even if they weren't, Omega had heard the organics carrying on about Christmas long enough to know that you were expected to be charitable at this time of year. Not that he'd ever set much stock in the habits of organics (very illogical creatures), but it piqued his curiosity enough that he decided to go with it.

"If you find the necessary parts, I would be willing to carry out the repairs myself," he began at last. Metal looked up from a tangle of drive belts and eyed him suspiciously.

"To what ends?"

"Greater efficiency," shrugged Omega. "You will not be much use against Eggman if you put a screwdriver through your central processing unit."

Metal continued to eye him warily, doubtful of the motivation behind this sudden offer. Still, truth be told, he _had_ been a little uneasy about digging around in his innards blind; he figured the chances of Omega having sinister ulterior motives were about equal to the chances of frying something vital if he did the job himself.

"Very well then," he gritted at last, turning away. "Give me until tomorrow to find compatible parts. Although be forewarned, if I suspect foul play, I shall dismantle you."

"Unlikely," grunted Omega, unimpressed by the threat. "I shall see you at sixteen-hundred hours."

He trudged heavily off through the snow, his footsteps creaking and scraping over the occasional stray fragment of scrap. Metal, scrabbling about in a mound of Egg Pawn limbs, paused to look after him dubiously for a moment; then he went back to scrounging for that _one_ wire somewhere, out there, that had neither been burnt nor broken when its owner exploded.

Life as a rogue robot weren't easy.


	2. Chapter 2

Later that afternoon, Rouge stashed the sack of mail in a closet and went to the living room. She found Shadow slouched on the sofa, eyes half-closed, his chin on his hand and his elbow on the sofa arm, while some cheesy Christmas special jabbered from the TV.

"Awright, no more," announced Rouge, striding over and flicking off the TV. Shadow, however, didn't bat an eyelash. Rouge followed his gaze, and realized he hadn't been watching the show after all; he was watching Omega, who stood next to the TV. The robot appeared to be very preoccupied with getting something off his fingers. First he would tug something off his left hand, then he would switch and try to pull something off his right hand, then the process would repeat. Rouge squinted.

"Did . . . you get into my stash of refrigerator magnets?"

"They are proving to be incorrigible," said Omega plaintively, waving one hand about in vain as an insurance-company magnet clung stubbornly to his index finger. "Efforts to remove them prove futile."

"I took down my refrigerator magnets two years ago for a formal party, and I've been searching for them ever since. You walk into my kitchen for three minutes, and you find them," sighed Rouge, tousling her ears. "Figures."

She caught Omega lightly by the wrist and tugged the magnet off his fingers, giving Shadow a reproachful look.

"You could've helped him out, you know."

"He didn't ask," said Shadow a little too innocently. Rouge rolled her eyes.

"And you yell at _me_ for behaving badly for Christmas."

Shadow closed his eyes, unimpressed.

Rolling her eyes again, Rouge shook it off and rubbed her hands briskly. "All right, let's get hopping. Where'd I put that box of garlands?"

Over the rest of the afternoon, Rouge's home got a bit of a Christmas makeover. Although really, the team members' contributions varied: Shadow mostly dozed on the sofa (seeing as there were no cookies to be had), Omega endeavored to help with the decorating (the fact that the tree was not to be burned disappointed him greatly), and Rouge did her level best to be comparatively merry and keep everything under control ("Omega sweetie, we don't stick sparklers in Shadow's hair.").

"These traditions of yours lack logic," grumbled Omega, attempting to disengage his foot from an affectionate strand of tinsel. "What purpose lies behind all of this? Why do you practice such things?"

"It's just . . . tradition," shrugged Rouge. "It's things you're just supposed to do around Christmastime. Have trees and lights and presents, and be jolly and all that."

"Why?"

"Well, there are lots of different reasons," said Rouge thoughtfully, trying to tease the plug out of a tangled mess of lights. "Everything has different meanings and all. But mostly it's just . . . you know everyone's doing it, and they have fun doing it, so you do it too. I guess."

"If you find these things amusing, why do you not do them all year?"

"Geez, no more questions." Rouge whapped Omega's arm reproachfully. "You're making me doubt my motivation for untangling these freaking lights when I'm going to be putting them away a month later."

Omega was quiet for a while. Still, he knew organics generally had very short memory spans in these matters, so he asked another question anyway.

"What about the charitability?"

"Oh, the gift-giving and stuff?" Rouge chuckled. "Well, it's all about the love, ya know? You're supposed to be extra-nice and help people this time of year. And giving someone a present shows you care about 'em and all that jazz."

"But we do not?"

"Nahhhh. Way too sappy," said Rouge, making a face. "I mean, I'm fine swapping gifts with Blue and the fox kid and such, since they're into mush like that—but sheesh, imagine walking up to _that_ and trying to give it a pretty present!"

"That"—namely Shadow—opened a lazy eye.

"Not to mention you get plenty enough gifts for yourself anyway," he remarked drowsily. "How do you figure mail theft into that charitability picture?"

Rouge put down the lights and regarded him grumpily for a moment, then turned to Omega.

"Changed my mind. Still got those sparklers somewhere?"

* * *

><p>Rouge's patience didn't hold for long. As soon as evening came, she shooed Shadow and Omega off, dumped the sack of mail on her living room floor, and settled down on her sofa with a pair of fuzzy slippers. She proceeded to go through all of the letters systematically, sorting them into piles of "not asking for anything expensive," "asking for jewelry," and "asking for electronicsother good stuff."

It was, she discovered, a rather thankless task. Most of the handwriting was absolutely abysmal—cute the first few times, but after a while it started to give you a splitting headache. The pickings were surprisingly poor, too—it turned out not too many kids were asking for stuff that a bat burglar would be interested in swiping after all. Still, Rouge was too stubborn to admit, even to herself, that it had been a bad idea. And besides, she did get to see the letters from Cream, Charmy, Marine, and even Tails—and, to her amusement, several of the older Mobians too. She had a good chuckle over some of the things the others were asking for.

Eventually, though, the monotonous process of open-read-sort wore her down, and as the night grew later her head began to nod. She considered getting up to fix herself some tea, but she fell asleep before she could go through with it.

In the wee hours of the morning, a cold draught blew across her bare shoulders, making her stir and mumble in her sleep. At last the breeze became uncomfortable enough to wake her; she groaned and stretched her sore back, dimly realizing she was still clutching an unopened letter in her hands. Why was it so cold in here? Had somebody opened the window? She looked to see.

The window was indeed open. And there were tiny little people in green and red suits piling through it.

Now, normally Rouge would have done something. Normally she would have leaped up and hollered at these tiny intruders, or chased them out with an umbrella, or heck, at least given a flabbergasted yowl. But right now she was simply shocked into complete inaction. She sat there, still clutching that letter, and gaped in disbelief as the little people, all chattering a foreign tongue in little high-pitched voices, swarmed around on the living room floor.

They were gathering up the letters, very efficiently. The opened ones, the unopened ones, stuffing them into their teeny sacks, messing up her nicely-arranged piles of sorted letters, and still she was too dumbfounded to even move.

At last the tiny crew had picked up all the letters on the floor. Most of them pattered away towards the window again, their now-plump sacks slung over their shoulders, but one particular little fellow lagged behind. He mumbled to himself in a bewildered fashion, searching all around as if he'd lost something. At last he stopped hunting on the floor, happened to glance up, and saw the letter Rouge was holding.

A hop, and he was standing on the sofa before her. With a scowl on his tiny face, he swiped the letter from her hands, whapped her sternly on the nose with it for good measure, and hightailed it out the window.

_Now_ Rouge regained the power of movement. She shot to her feet and skidded to the still-open window—but all she could see were teeny-tiny footprints receding into the distance, already vanishing as the snow blew about in the wind.

* * *

><p>The next morning, Shadow showed up with a ream of G.U.N. papers that needed signing. He knew Rouge would be expecting the visit, and he knew paperwork was far from her favorite, so he was rather surprised when Rouge opened the door, gave an elated yelp, and yanked him indoors by the arm.<p>

"I don't like this already," he informed her, but Rouge paid that no mind.

"Shadow! There were _elves!_"

He studied her blankly. She took him by the shoulders and shook him.

"Freaking _elves,_ Shadow! In my _house!_"

"Rouge." He disentangled himself gently from her grip. "I suppose it's none of my business, but aren't you a little young for _that_ kind of eggnog?"

"Eggnog?" Rouge blinked at him for a minute, then snorted angrily and resumed her spiel. "Don't make smart comments! I fell asleep reading all those letters, and when I woke up, there were tons of elves coming in through my window and taking all of them away!"

Shadow rolled his eyes.

"It was a dream, Rouge. Maybe you do have a conscience after all, and it felt guilty."

"_Stop being a smart aleck!_ You can't stand there snarking when there are little elf people breaking into random houses!"

"Definitely a dream. Brought on by a bit too much of little bat people breaking into random houses."

Rouge seethed.

"If it was a dream, you fruitcake," she hissed, "why are all the letters gone? Huh?!"

Shadow went to the closet and noted the clear absence of letters. He shrugged.

"Okay, I get it. This is one of your stupid jokes. You knew I didn't like you stealing the letters, so you hid them all somewhere and made up a story about elves to fool me."

"Sha-_dow!_"

Shadow ducked aside nimbly and studied Rouge's furious expression. He knew she was good at acting, but he'd seen her do it often enough that he could usually tell when she was putting it on. And right now, she really did look desperately mad.

"Okay," he sighed at last, burying his fingers in his top quill and raising his other hand in surrender. "Okay, I believe you. Little elves came and took back the letters you stole. No need to lose your mind over that."

"No need?! With tiny magic burglars on the loose?"

"They wouldn't have bothered you if you didn't take their letters," retorted Shadow. "Besides, that's not what you should worry about."

"Oh yeah? What _should_ I worry about, wise guy?"

"How low on Santa's 'Naughty' list you've landed now that they know what you've been doing."

For a moment Rouge's eyes went wide and her ears sagged outwards; almost instantly though, she recovered and gave an unconcerned scoff.

"Psh, that? It doesn't matter. I was already on the 'Naughty' list to begin with anyway."

"You don't know." Shadow folded his arms, leaning back against the sofa. "You were really pretty decent earlier this year. You saved that kitten from getting run over, remember?"

"Ehh, one kitten." Rouge waved dismissively.

"And you didn't do as much burglaring as usual."

"You think? I don't know, I think I was doing about average."

"And you gave the Faker a Chaos Emerald, that one time."

"Well, the whole _world_ needed saving." She rolled her eyes.

"Plus you didn't plunder any orphanages . . . "

"I'm not _that_ bad!" Rouge gave him a look. "For Pete's sake."

"Fine, fine." Shadow was surprised how much effort it took to retain an emotionless expression. He'd gotten used to bantering with Rouge, over the years . . . darn him if he didn't enjoy it sometimes. "But the fact of the matter is, you were acting better than usual. You _might_ very well have been on the 'Nice' list."

"Yeah, well." Rouge rubbed her arm ruefully. "I kind of blew it now, didn't I?"

"Kind of. Yeah."

A bit of silence, during which Rouge chewed her lip and studied the carpeting. At last she sighed and looked up briskly.

"Well, what's done is done. No use fussing over it now. I guess you came over with the usual paperwork, huh?"


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Wow, you guys. The reviews on this have been, just . . . wow. **

**Thanks so much to everyone! Sorry this chapter was delayed for so long, it was really tricky to write. I'm still not sure if it's any good . . . same for the next one. **

**Hope you're all having a merry Christmas!**

* * *

><p>Rouge and Shadow were probably still squabbling over the Z3 form at four o'clock, when Omega headed out to the scrapyard. He was there a little early, but he was surprised to not see Metal anywhere about. It wasn't like a robot to be late.<p>

He was just starting to wonder if Metal wasn't coming at all when a familiar whoosh of rocket boosters approached from the direction of the woods. Metal Sonic, despite having an expressionless metal muzzle, managed to look thoroughly and completely fed up.

"Have the organics reverted to their ancestral habitat?" he demanded for way of greeting. "The forest is _infested_ with them."

"They are probably searching for trees," said Omega, realizing this must have made staying out of sight tricky for Metal. He hoped the other robot hadn't sniped anyone in his frustration.

Meanwhile, Metal Sonic looked even less amused than before.

"If these meatbags cannot find trees while they are staggering amidst an entire forest of them, I despair of ever—"

"_Particular_ trees," interrupted Omega. "Certain kinds. It is their tradition at this time of year."

"This time?"

"Christmas," said Omega, although he wondered if Metal even knew the definition of the word. "Christmas is coming, and the organics have very many traditions they fulfill in preparation. I have observed them and gathered data."

"Data?" Metal's voice scraped a scornful low note. "You waste your time. The habits of pathetic living creatures are of no interest to me, and should not be to you. They are as insipid as their creators."

"Insipid, perhaps, but an intriguing study nonetheless. It is not a waste of time; it is a sociocultural observational experiment. I could tell you much about what I have found."

Metal looked away, a gesture of scornful boredom. Omega started to understand why organic creatures sometimes sighed. He and Metal Sonic lived in different worlds, and understanding went only one way between them. Though they were both blessed with sentience, they treated it differently.

Omega felt a kind of rough sympathy for living creatures. Oh, they were pathetically inferior to robots, to be sure—and he didn't lose any opportunities to remind his teammates of that. But organics could think and feel, like him. They enjoyed being alive, clung to life—like him. He knew that he wanted to keep existing, and he understood that these creatures, weaklings though they were, wanted the same thing. He could respect that, see it as a common bond between them, and allow it to grow into a gruff tolerance. Perhaps, in a very few cases, a gruff affection.

But Metal didn't see it that way. Perhaps he also understood that organics had the same thoughts and feelings as he did, but that simply didn't matter to him. All he could see was their weak, fragile bodies, their slow, inefficient minds. Their inferiority. His contempt was untempered by any kind of patience.

He probably really did think Omega had gone soft, hanging out with the little meatbags all the time and learning their customs. And . . . that notion did sting, a little. But this was Omega's life; he had his teammates, his mission against Eggman, his place in the world. He looked down at this small, angry, slightly-lost robot, grudgingly holding out a handful of scavenged wires, and felt no envy—only a bittersweet pity at how lonely such a life must be.

"Find something to brace against," he instructed, storing the inner dialog away for later. "I will not have you squirming."

Metal Sonic nodded tersely and settled back on a flat piece of armoring, slinging his arm across his chest to keep it out of the way. Omega worked his fingers into the break in Metal's side and pried the blue paneling back, revealing a nest of tangled and frayed wires. The damage was a good bit worse than expected—this would take a while.

As Omega worked, his enormous fingers maneuvering with all the precision of a skilled surgeon's, Metal Sonic sat sullenly still. His gaze was trained away from Omega, showing that he still resented his robot brother's concern. He also resented getting the injury in the first place, resented not being able to fix it himself, resented the organics for having those blasted fancy self-repair systems . . . the resentment was strong with this one.

Still, the silence eventually grew awkward, even between two metallic killing machines. Abruptly Metal Sonic looked up, his eyes glowing with annoyance.

"Well then?"

"Phrase not understood. Clarify," replied Omega, even though he had a pretty good idea of what Metal meant.

"You said you wished to speak. I have no better way to occupy my time as of now," retorted Metal, irritation lacing his automated voice.

"About the organic customs? You had no wish to hear of them, so for the sake of efficiency I did not present them."

Metal Sonic gritted in irritation.

"Perhaps you do not have the processing capacity to change your mind," he said loftily. "This unit does."

"Very well then," said Omega blandly, ignoring the jab about his processing power. Obviously, he'd merely been testing if Metal's comprehension circuits were hooked up correctly to register annoyance. That was all. Of course.

"You have already seen one of the organic customs," he began. "In fact, it is one of their dearest traditions to endorse deforestation at this time of year. They show great love and reverence for the cutting down of trees and the dressing of said trees in garish fashions, presumably to mock them in their defeat."

Metal's eyes flickered, but he made no comment.

"There is a particular kind of music that they play for Christmas as well," continued Omega. "It is rather peculiar, but almost everyone tolerates it. It deals with various subjects, such as things called 'chestnuts' which roast on open fires, and a character called 'Jack Frost.' It would appear he bites people's noses."

"Peculiar indeed," muttered Metal, still feigning disinterest. Still, he was clearly listening, because his head angled almost imperceptably to direct one of his auditory sensors towards Omega. The larger robot considered his next direction, gingerly stripping the coating from a wire tip.

"There are many unusual dressings they put upon their living places, also—they call them 'decorations," and they are supposed to be aesthetically pleasing."

Metal's eyes suddenly brightened, as if in realization. Omega paused; his silence was enough to offer a penny for Metal's thoughts.

"Do these . . . 'decorations' . . . include strange strands of bright light?" asked Metal guardedly, looking away as if he already regretted asking.

"Yes, very many of those. They put them on the dead trees, and on the outside of their houses. Have you seen one?"

"Several, from a distance." Metal glanced up at him hesitantly. "It looked like the houses were on fire, but they never burned down."

"Yes, it does look like that. And they also include multitudes of ornaments and tinsel and other shiny things, which reflect the light and add to the effect. The trees look almost as if they were burning all the time, in white or multi-colored fire. It is not quite the real thing, but it also lasts much longer."

"And they find this aesthetically pleasing?"

"Very."

Metal dropped his gaze again without a word, but Omega got the feeling he was slightly impressed.

"They also prepare unusual foods," he resumed, tapping a wire into place, "and they often solicit signs of affection known as 'kisses' from their fellow-creatures. They usually do this by hanging small parasitic plants from the ceiling and standing beneath them."

"Parasitic plants?" Metal looked up again, tilting his head.

"I expect it is symbolic."

Metal gave a short warbling bark that Omega recognized as the electronic equivalent of a laugh.

"Do they have nothing better to do than to propagate miserable relationships?"

"Perhaps, but they do not always do what is best for them," shrugged Omega. "They are very illogical at times."

"I could tell," grumbled Metal Sonic. "It has worn off onto _you_."

"Very true. It does explain why I am wasting my time here at this moment."

For a second Metal looked like he was going to make a cutting reply, but he at last settled for a quiet grinding noise and an irritated toss of his head. He had to admit that logic alone couldn't quite explain Omega's offer of help, and he wasn't sure if he liked that.

"The repairs are completed," announced Omega, bending the paneling back into place. "You should test your systems before I weld the seam shut."

Nodding, Metal pushed himself to his feet, flickered, and disintegrated, slipping into a pool of reflective liquid. It dribbled instantly into the cracks between pieces of scrap metal, whispering out of sight, then gushed out onto the snow and whirled up into a solid form.

"Satisfactory," grunted Metal Sonic, brushing bits of snow from his arms. "Will it hold without soldering?"

"It should," said Omega. "Give it some time and move about a bit to see that nothing shakes loose."

Metal nodded again and powered up his rocket booster, whisking off into the woods. Omega, unwilling to just stand around waiting, set out to see if he could hunt down some Egg Pawns in the meantime. He knew Metal would be able to find him.

Sure enough, as he skirted a field crisscrossed with little animals' snowy footprints, a blue form seemed to flicker into place next to him.

"All seems in order," said Metal. He looked around and suddenly stopped, fixating on something across the field. "What are those?"

"Snowmen," replied Omega. "The organics build them to resemble themselves."

"As effigies?" Metal's eyes flared red.

"They are not for destroying!" scolded Omega, hastily pulling the smaller robot back as he set out purposefully towards the row of snowmen.

"Then what are they for? Effigies are meant to be destroyed, are they not?"

"Usually, but the organics do not destroy these. They simply leave them."

"Forever?"

"At least until the snow melts."

"Melts?" Metal suddenly made a sound of understanding. "So they build effigies of each other, then leave them to slowly disintegrate in the sun?"

"That is the usual system, yes. Rather diabolical, is it not?"

"Rather." Metal studied the snowmen again, arms folded. "I like it."

The conversation so far had been going remarkably well, really. As Omega converted one hand to a flamethrower and carefully melted the seams of Metal's injury together, he brought up his final point.

"There is still something very important I have not mentioned. During this time of year, there is much excitement regarding a particular person known as 'Santa Claus.' Supposedly, he wanders the world on the night before Christmas, giving toys and other desirable things to children who have behaved well during the year."

"Rather peculiar," said Metal noncommitally.

"Indeed. But the nature of this person is worrisome. He is allegedly a rotund man, dressed all in red, who laughs very often and at the slightest excuse. He has whole armies of helpers, hides away in a remote location building things, travels in a flying vehicle, and—I am told—keeps surveillance on just about everyone."

Metal's eyes flared again, and one hand snapped reflexively into a fist.

"Doctor Eggman!"

"It does seem that way, does it not?" said Omega grimly, shutting off the welding flame and testing the seam.

"Something must be done!" Metal Sonic growled. "This must be one of the Doctor's machinations. How long has this been occurring?"

"That is the perplexing part," said Omega. "Allegedly he has been doing this for _centuries_."

"_Centuries?_ Even Eggman could not live that long."

"Not to mention I do not think he would expend so much effort to give people things, even to cover one of his plots."

"They are good things? Not evil things?"

"Not evil in the slightest."

Metal shook his head, looking dissatisfied.

"I still do not trust this. It is too suspicious."

"I was suspicious about it as well. I have written this 'Santa' a letter, inquiring about the matter; when he replies I shall decide how to proceed."

"How will you know?"

"I asked him if he knew Eggman. The Doctor holds himself in high esteem; if this 'Santa' who is supposed to favor well-behaved children speaks favorably of Eggman, I will know he is Eggman himself. Also, I signed my name on the letter; if it is Eggman receiving it, he will send attack robots along with the return message."

"Cunning," conceded Metal. "Let me know the results."

"I shall." Omega gestured at the newly-welded scar on Metal's side. "The surface should have cooled by now. Unfortunately the imperfection will remain visible. Enemies may aim for it as a weak spot."

"That is of no consequence," shrugged Metal. "I will not give them a chance to."

Omega hesitated for a moment, calculating. At last he opened one of his small carrying compartments and pried something out.

"Take this."

"What . . . is this, exactly?" asked Metal, taking the small red square and studying it.

"It is a magnet. It was one of Rouge's, but you may keep it if you like."

"Why?" Metal looked up at him questioningly. It was not a very specific inquiry, for a robot; Omega hesitated. He considered explaining like Rouge had, about the gift-giving and such, but he knew Metal wouldn't understand. He might even reject it as one of the more nonsensical organic traditions; goodness knew Omega couldn't make much sense of it himself. And he'd just started to get Metal warmed up to the concept at all, so . . .

"You do not have to keep it," he said at last. "But you can use it to cover the breakage, so opponents do not know to strike it. It would be a waste of my time if you were damaged again within two weeks."

"I will . . . consider it," said Metal Sonic at last, trying to put the magnet away and making a puzzled sound when it clung to his hand instead.

"They do tend to do that," said Omega drily.

Metal gave him a suspicious glance, but let the matter slide. Powering up his rocket booster to leave, he turned around at the last moment.

"The repair is . . . appreciated. I shall keep note of it," he said almost hastily, and was gone.

From a purely logical standpoint, thought Omega as he turned homeward, that evening had been a complete waste of his time. And still, he was oddly satisfied with it . . .


	4. Chapter 4

**Last chapter! Thank you so much again for reading! Hope you all had a great Christmas. ^_^**

* * *

><p>Despite Rouge's casual dismissal of the 'Nice' list, the idea clearly still irked her. Shadow was going to tell her to drop it, but in the evening she disappeared—and she wasn't seen until next morning, when she turned up walking down the road that led to her house, looking rather battered and weary. Shadow and Omega ran into her along the way and swung into step with her, not commenting on her disheveled state but wondering if she'd explain.<p>

They knew her well. At length she gave a disgruntled snort and tightened her scarf.

"So I went up to the North Pole . . . "

"You . . . " Shadow blinked at her.

"Yeah. I waited by the mailbox in Station Square, and when the elves came to take the letters, I nabbed one and asked him to take me with them. So he did."

"Why would you even . . . "

"It was bugging me, okay?" snapped Rouge. "I had to know if I'd really been on the 'Nice' list. So I went there, and Santa was kind of busy—it being the time of year it is and all—and he said he couldn't tell me which list I was on _now_. 'Cos that's strictly classified. But he said he could tell me where I'd _been_ two or more months ago."

"Mmm?"

"Yeah." Rouge shrugged. "I was on the 'Nice' list."

"Congratulations?" said Shadow, shrugging in return. He wasn't sure what quite else you should say, in response to that kind of news, and "never thought I'd see the day" didn't seem quite right.

"Thanks," sighed Rouge. She kicked a loose clump of ice aside. "But we sure know which list I'm on _now_, all the same. So that's just swell. And then I had to take the magic express wind-tunnel whatsitsname to get back here so fast. Never _again_, I tell you. All-around sucky experience."

"Well don't look at me."

"I'm not looking at you," muttered Rouge. She chewed her tongue for a minute, glaring at the road, then looked up suddenly as if she'd just remembered something. "Oh, Omega—Santa said to give you this." She dug in her coat pocket and handed the robot a slim red-and-green envelope. "He said something about delivering it early so he could make it down the chimney safely—seemed to think it was a huge joke. What was _in_ that letter you sent him? You weren't threatening the poor guy, were you?"

"Nothing of the kind," said Omega, unruffled. "I was asking his opinion."

"Opinion? Hobnobbing with jolly St. Nick himself, are you?" Rouge huffed. "I bet _you're_ on the 'Nice' list."

"Indeed, I expect I am."

Rouge snorted bitterly. As Omega fell back, studying the address on the envelope, Rouge dug her hands into her pockets and looked contemplative.

"I should've stole one of his elves," she muttered.

"_That_ would be the 'Naughty' list for eternity right there."

"Aw, come on. They just go on a year-by-year basis, right? Doesn't matter _how_ bad you are one year, it doesn't carry over into the next." Rouge snapped her fingers suddenly. "Come to think! Since I just landed on the wrong side of the list this year anyway, I should at least make it worth my while before Christmas goes by and they start counting for next year's list. Maybe I _will_ plunder a few orphanages!"

Shadow raised his eyes heavenwards and decided to wash his hands of the matter. Leave it to Rouge to take Santa's good-behavior system as reverse psychology.

"Or at least I could pour ice water down a few chimneys," continued Rouge, clearly warming up to the concept. "Or I could burn down the big Christmas tree in Station Square, or hijack an armored vehicle, or stick up a bank and steal all their free mints! Heck, I could really live it up before Christmas!"

"If you get yourself jailed, don't expect me to bail you out," muttered Shadow.

"Forget jail, I'm gonna live dangerously! What's the most dangerous thing I could do? . . . " Rouge rubbed her hands together and eyed Shadow contemplatively. "Sayyyyy, are you getting me anything for Christmas?"

Shadow looked at her oddly, but shook his head.

"Good," said Rouge, and pushed him unceremoniously into a snowdrift. "Okay, that was exciting! Now for the second-most-dangerous. Probably that would be the . . . " She looked up. "Uh-oh—"

At least it was Christmas. Presumably Shadow wouldn't bring out the Chaos Spears.

Hopefully.

Omega watched his teammates fondly, but from a safe distance. A familiar whine of engines sounded just behind him, and he turned to see Metal Sonic pulling up to a hover nearby, observing the scene curiously.

"Savage little creatures, aren't they?" remarked the smaller robot at last.

"The very savagest."

"At least you are not keeping entirely disgraceful company," continued Metal, making a little too big a show of grudging the concession. Omega grated amusedly.

"You have received correspondence, then?" inquired Metal, pointing at the still-unopened letter. Omega nodded and slit it open, pulling out a very formal-looking cream-colored stationery, neatly printed.

"His binary is excellent," he noted, surprised.

"But what does it say?"

"The usual formalities," murmured Omega, scanning. "Also: 'With regards to your question, yes, I am acquainted with Doctor Eggman. He has attempted to cause trouble for me several times, and there has not yet been a year in which he was not on the 'Naughty' list. I am also aware of your enmity with the Doctor, and while I do not endorse violence of any sort, I understand your sentiments and wish you luck in your endeavors. Sincerely, Saint Nicholas.'"

"So then, he is not Eggman?" asked Metal.

"Evidently not," said Omega. "We shall have to call off the attack."

Metal gave a grudging chirp.

"I had been looking forward to some excitement for a change . . . "

"You have no upcoming plans?"

"Nothing of interest." Metal shrugged.

"It looks like things will be fairly exciting over here," ventured Omega, glancing back at his teammates. "You would probably be welcome here for Christmas."

Metal glanced over with something like surprise; that was really going out on a limb, for Omega. It touched him enough that he made the effort to word his answer carefully.

"The offer is not entirely disagreeable. But still—your company is not my company. This unit does not acknowledge nor participate in the organic traditions. However, the offer of goodwill is acknowledged, and documented under 'favorable.' Goodwill: returned in kind."

Aww. That was really going out on a limb for Metal Sonic, too. Omega nodded in acceptance.

"Safe travels, then. Do endeavor not to get damaged too spectacularly; I grow tired of repairing you."

That metallic warble of ironic laughter, a swish of parting air, and Metal Sonic was gone. Omega settled down, more or less satisfied. He knew his robot brother couldn't really appreciate the traditions of the holidays, but he could accept and respect that.

It was enough, really, that he had caught the glint of a bright-red magnet against the blue of Metal's hull.


End file.
